A Good Man
by the-speed-reader
Summary: But she looks up and glares at him. She won't give this up. "I know you," she tells him, her voice sharp. "Something's different. Please, Ward. Don't shut me out." / Based loosely on the 1x19 promo.


_Hey AOS fandom! So this is a little piece based loosely off the promo for 1x19. If you haven't seen the promo, go see it RIGHT NOW. I've lost count of how many times I've watched it, overanalyzing and losing my patience because I cannot wait for next week's damn episode._

_So enjoy this little fic to help with waiting for 1x19._

* * *

"_One day you will kiss a man you can't breathe without, and find that breath is of little consequence._" -Karen Marie Moning

* * *

He steps closer and closer to her, his footsteps nearly footballs of noise against the concrete, his lips forced upward into a smirk and his fingers twitching by his side. But even with his cool façade, she winces slightly when she sees the rather large bloody mess seeping down the left side of his face, the nasty cut above his right eyebrow and the many other assortment of bruises. His lips curl into a rather small smile when he stops a foot or so away from her though, the smirk disappearing from all signs of his expression.

"Hey," he whispers, stretching his hands outwards only to wince sharply when a crack is heard. It's then she's in front of him in an instant, unzipping his jacket and throwing it off his shoulders. She bit her lip as he flinched when her fingers ran up his ribs under his white tee, revealing swelling and slightly purple and blue bruising. "Little public, isn't it, Skye?" he murmurs as she examines him, giving him a sharp look at his comment.

"Shut up," she hisses, ignoring the slight heat that curles in her belly. Her fingers moved upwards to his face now, catching his chin and rubbing her thumb over a rather nasty cut on his lip. She swallows, hard. "What the hell happened?" she asks, her voice echoing lightly in the hallway.

He takes a look around, her expression grim. "I'll be fine," he promises her, his hand moving to catch her wrist as she began to examine the blood on the side of his face. He gently forces her hand down, before releasing it and placing his own fingers on her hip. "Are you alright?" he asks her, his eyes searching hers for any sign that she isn't.

But it's then that she catches a full glimpse of him; there's an echo of pure exhaustion, yes, but there's something else. There's a darkness in his eyes that wasn't present before, a realization that makes her inhale sharply. Her teeth clench, her mouth parting slightly. "Ward," she says, her voice low. "What _happened_?"

He glances away from her again, his eyes flickering. "I'll tell you in the morning," he begins, drawing his hand from her hip and searching the numerous doorways decorating the walls. "Where are we sleeping?"

Her eyes nearly slam shut at the slip of the word _we_, but she keeps her thoughts to herself as she brings her hand to his cheek again, her thumb tapping lightly along his wound. He winces, moving his hand to pull her away as before; but this time when she speaks, she lets the ever-present worry creep into her voice. "Please," she tells him, her voice cracking. "Ward, please tell me what happened."

Because no matter how much she kept it in, she cared about him deeply, more than anyone else she's ever met — or stayed with for a long period of time, for that matter.

He glances back at her then, his eyes sharp. He looks exhausted as his finger taps against his side. "Can I tell you in the morning?" When she begins to protest, he cuts her off. "I'm tired," he insists. "I promise, I'll tell you."

She doesn't truly believe him, but he honestly looks dead on his feet. So she pulls her hand away, dropping it limply by her side before motioning for him to follow her. And he does; the rest of the team has long since retired into the night after adjoining their little meeting and promising to see each other in the morning. She had waited up for him though, anxiously, having been settled against the wall with her eyes shut, telling herself, _he will come. He will be alright. _

Her eyes shot to the room she had been introduced to as her own, waving for him to follow her in. The door closes with a quiet _click _as she steps, flipping on the light switch. It's a dim one, but it allows her the view of a small bedroom, complete with a full-sized bed, a decent sized couch, and a door that most likely leads to a bathroom.

He shrugs his jacket off fully then, tossing it onto the couch and running a hand through his hair. "I'll take the couch," he says, his voice firm. Her mouth parts to protest, but he waves a hand. "I'm a gentleman," he reminds her. "Give me this one pleasure."

So she nods and jokingly ducks into a curtsy. His rough laugh fills the room and for a split second nostalgia fills her, the memory of his presence leaking into her thoughts. But then she's snapped out of it with a hand on her shoulder, his face looming above her.

"Skye," he says quietly, "what's wrong?"

"Nothing," she shoots back, shaking her head. "Nothing at all." She turns away then, tossing off her own thin layer of a shirt, revealing a black tank top. She can feel his eyes raking her as she unhooks the necklace that decorates her neck and places it on the side table. But then his presence is gone for a moment as the bathroom door clicks shut.

She flicks off her boots and shoves them partway under the bed. Her thoughts briefly think of taking out her braid, but then decides to leave it in. He's still in the bathroom, the sound of water heard clear through the walls. So she decides to wait for him, slipping onto the small couch; she still wants to talk, because the moment his eyes flickered shut she wouldn't get another word out of him for who knows how long.

When he comes out a few minutes later she's playing with the frayed blanket set on the armrest of the chair, a blur of a red and a dark blue. Her knees are pulled to her chest as he sits across from her, one of his hands settling to her knee.

"Skye," he says, sounding exasperated. "It's late; please, just go to bed."

But she looks up and glares at him. She won't give this up. "I know you," she tells him, her voice sharp. "Something's _different. _Please, Ward. Don't shut me out."

For a moment, he's quiet, his eyes flashing in an emotion she cannot recognize. But when he speaks, his voice his noticeably darker. "You're a good person, Skye. I'm not," he tells her, his voice partly choked.

"You are," she argues back, but it's then his hand is slipping to her neck, pulling her towards him.

Their lips meet and she slams her eyes shut, her fingers moving to the side of his face just behind his ear. His hand pulls the braid out, threading his fingers in her hair, holding her tightly. It's only the second time they've kissed, but he kisses her roughly; with a startling thought she realizes that he's kissing her like it was the last time he ever would.

They break apart, swollen lips and darkened eyes. But then he kisses her again, moving forward. His hands are wrapped around her lower back now, lowering her to the couch. Her fingers are creeping into his hair, pulling at it as he bites her lower lip.

"Skye," he breathes, breaking away from her lips and kissing down her neck. She counts two more beats before he breaks away from her, bringing his eyes to hers.

"I'm sorry," he chokes, his voice low. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" she asks, propping herself up slightly. He's hovered over her, preventing her from moving upwards more but her elbow keeps her steady as her fingers move back to his cheek. "You're a good man, Ward," she tells him, her voice soft. "I trust you."

And when he kisses her again, harshly, she lets herself forget the world.

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_What'd you think?_


End file.
